Cleaning Up
by LyricalSinger
Summary: John's had enough and decides it's time to clean up the flat. What could possibly go wrong?


A/N: Once again, thanks to my beta sarajm for her support and excellent reviewing skills. Reviews and constructive criticisms most welcome.

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Cleaning Up

It was a lovely scene: the sun was shining, the flat was clean, no rogue experiments lurking behind the coffee tin, John and Sherlock were both relaxing in the living room, one pecking away on his keyboard, the other engrossed in last month's issue of Forensic Magazine.

The bang from a car backfiring outside jerked John awake and as he sat up in bed, his heart pounding, he realized that it was all a dream. The rain was still clattering off the bin lids outside and despite the fact that his alarm clock showed 8:35 a.m., the atmosphere outside his window made it seem more like 2:00 in the morning.

As John sat there, running his hands over his face and through his hair, all he could think was "Oh, please, not another day of this". It had been raining … well, actually, no, not raining. The word "raining" made one think of early spring days with green grass and budding flowers and trees drinking of Mother Nature's bounty. This, this was more like monsoon season. It had been pouring out of the heavens for four days now and it was getting ridiculous. London hadn't seen such weather in over 15 years: tube stations were flooded, for pity's sake!

As for 221B Baker Street, well fortunately there was no flooding, but instead a raging Sherlock had taken up residence. After being housebound with the lunatic for four days, it was all John could do to keep a shred of his sanity intact. Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart, had already decamped to her niece's, cheerfully abandoning John with a "Toodle-loo, dearie. See you in a week!"

"Well", thought John, "no point in trying to get back to sleep. I'd better go check to see what my nutter of a flat mate has been up to in the last seven hours". John rolled himself out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and trundled off down the stairs towards the kitchen, intent on a cup of tea.

He wasn't even halfway down before he heard the melodious tones of Sherlock's voice reverberating through the flat, repeating John's most-feared word in the English language:

"Bored, BORED, _BORED_! Do something, John."

John just closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then continued down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Did you hear me, John? Do something. I can't take another day of this", whined Sherlock.

"Nothing from Lestrade then? Or the website?"

"Honestly John, think! If I'd heard from Lestrade do you think I'd be complaining of boredom" said Sherlock as he wandered into the kitchen behind John. "As for the website …. Bah! Plebeians all! I'll have a cup of tea, thank you".

"Who says I'm making tea?" asked John, as he filled the kettle and set it to boil. "I was actually thinking of having a nice warm cup of arsenic this morning, if it means I won't have to deal with you at all today."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, John", replied Sherlock. "I can't help it if there's nothing to stimulate my mind. It would appear that the criminal class is too cowardly to venture out into this weather to commit a crime. A nice locked-door murder, is that too much to ask?"

"Well, honestly Sherlock, most people would ….. you know what, never mind. I forgot for a moment that you're not 'most people'. What about your experiments, hmm? From the state of our fridge, it looks like the apocalypse is nigh, what with the various body parts, malodorous containers and something in the back that looks like it is developing sentience".

"Oh, all of those experiments are over, or pointless now", said Sherlock, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I need something new to keep my mind from stagnating. I'm sick of this rain, this flat, Lestrade not calling with a new case. I need _something_ to occupy my mind".

By this time, the kettle had boiled and John had made tea and, cradling his mug close to his chest, stepped into the living room. One look at the chaos and John got a brilliant idea.

"Sherlock, I've the answer to all your problems. You say you've got nothing to occupy you and your mind is stagnating. Well, I know how to fix you. Go get dressed and I'll meet you back here in ten minutes", said John as he hurried up the steps to his room, tea mug still held tightly in his hands.

"John, what are you up to? What can you possible do to help me overcome my boredom?" asked Sherlock.

"Less talking, more dressing", yelled John from the top of the stairs. You've got ten minutes, but don't wear anything fancy".

Sure enough, ten minutes later the two men were heading into the living room, one wearing jeans and a ratty old T-shirt, the other wearing crisp black trousers, a white button down and a black jacket.

"I said don't wear anything fancy", said John, taking a look at Sherlock as he stepped into the room.

"This is the least fancy clothing I own", answered Sherlock, eying John skeptically.

"Oh, well, umm, OK. Anyway, I know how to keep you occupied. We're going to clean the flat. This place is a disaster and you know Mrs. Hudson will have a fit when she gets back if she sees it like this", said John as he headed into the kitchen to retrieve the cleaning supplies.

"I don't think so, John", said Sherlock, with a great deal of sarcasm.

"You don't think so, what?" asked John. By this time he was practically under the sink trying to reach the cleaning rags and barely heard Sherlock.

"I don't think I'll help you clean", said Sherlock. "I don't clean."

John walked back into the living room carrying a bucket filled with rags, cleansers, furniture polish and scrub brushes. "I am not putting up with this", he thought to himself. "Sherlock is going to help clean up this place, if it kills me".

Captain Watson marched up to Sherlock, got right into his personal space, and then leaned in yet a little more. "I beg your pardon?" he said in a gentle tone wrapped around a core of steel. "I must have misheard. You live in this flat, Sherlock, same as I do. You dirty it, same as I do. In fact, you make more of a mess than I ever could in a hundred lifetimes. You are _going_ to help clean this flat and if I don't approve of your work, you will keep at it until I'm satisfied. Do. You. Understand?"

One look at his flat mate and Sherlock realized that there was no way he was going to get out of it. He'd never seen such a look of determination in John's eyes.

"Fine", he huffed. "And I suppose that if I don't help I'll 'live to regret it', correct?" added Sherlock.

"Actually, Sherlock, if you don't help out today you won't be around to regret anything", responded John, with the beginnings of a smile on his face.

"Why don't you start by clearing away all your old experiments while I get to work on the bathroom. And remember, hazardous waste goes in the blue plastic bin. I'll take it to St. Bart's for proper disposal later". With that, John was off down the hall towards the bathroom.

Not five minutes later, Sherlock was standing at the kitchen table looking at the various petri dishes, slides and bottles littering the surface. With many grumbles and much muttering, he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and starting sorting through the detritus.

About a half-hour later, John stepped back from the mop and gave the now-gleaming bathroom a satisfied once-over. "Don't go into the loo, Sherlock, the floor's still wet", he called as he headed towards the kitchen.

Not hearing any response, he poked his head into the kitchen to find Sherlock sitting at the table his eyes fixed to his microscope.

"Sherlock, have you done anything in here?" asked John with a deep sigh.

"Hmmm. What?" asked Sherlock in a distracted manner.

"You were supposed to be clearing out your experiments", said John. "What happened?"

"Oh, well, you see, turns out that some interesting and unexpected reactions have been going on over the last few days. I couldn't just throw them away, John, now could I?" said Sherlock with a smirk on his face.

John just looked at Sherlock, shook his head and said "All right, fine. I guess science wins out over cleanliness, hunh".

Sherlock just looked at John like he was an idiot. "Science always comes first, John. You know that".

"OK, so, if you're not willing to dispose of your experiments, can you at least gather together all the cold case files Greg has dropped off over of the past months? They've got to go back to Scotland Yard; they're taking over in here. And, I think you've still got the evidence from the Smytheson murder case around here somewhere. What say you go through the files, box them all and then I can call Greg to come pick them up at some point."

"Greg?" said Sherlock, with a blank look on his face. "Ahh, you mean Lestrade".

"He does have a name, Sherlock; it would be nice if you used it on occasion."

"Why?"

"Just go box the files", said John with great exasperation.

"Fine, fine", muttered Sherlock as he wandered off into the living room.

John took a look at the mess on kitchen table and decided he'd better start with the fridge instead. Thank goodness he'd been an army doctor with a strong stomach because the contents of the fridge were frankly terror-inducing. He'd already disposed of a bag of ears, one eyeball, one left thumb and a bag of miscellaneous offal when Sherlock called to him: "What am I supposed to be doing again?"

"Gathering up the files and stuff and putting them in the box I left for you".

"Right."

There was a pause and then Sherlock called "This box?"

"Sherlock, is there any other box in the living room?"

"Where, there is the box from new DVD player that you insisted on purchasing, and there's a small wooden music box …"

"Sherlock!"

"Ahh, found it! No need to panic John".

"I wasn't panicking", thought John. "That was my 'get to work or I'm going to kill you' voice. Guess I need to work on that to make it more menacing."

All was relatively peaceful for the next couple of hours. John was busy scrubbing and disinfecting every surface in the kitchen, accompanied by a running commentary from Sherlock on the ins and outs of every single file he picked up. It was a little annoying, but eventually John was able to tune the majority of it out and it became more like background noise than a conversation he felt he should contribute to. "I shouldn't complain", thought John. "Sherlock is actually helping, which is more than I ever expected."

John was standing on the stepstool with his head in one of the cabinets, furiously scrubbing at a lump of what looked to be a mixture of maple syrup, blueberry jam and diesel oil stuck to the shelf when he realized that he'd not heard anything from Sherlock for a few minutes.

"Everything OK in there?" called John, but he got no response.

"Sherlock?"

"Um, John, I need some help please."

"Just a sec, Sherlock. I've almost got this gunk up."

"NOW JOHN!" yelled Sherlock with a note of terror in his voice.

The yell shocked John so much that he threw his head up and into the edge of the cabinet shelf. Clutching his head, he just about fell off the stepstool as he tried to hurry towards the living room.

"John, I think I've sliced off my finger", cried Sherlock. "Get in here."

"Oh my God, what did you do?" said John as he rushed into the living room. As he headed towards Sherlock who was standing by the window hunched over and clutching his hand to his chest, he began mentally running through the contents of his medical bag hoping he had everything on hand to deal with the situation. "I can call Mycroft", he thought, "he can get us an ambulance faster than 999".

He came up to Sherlock's side, placed a gentle hand on his arm, led him to the sofa and urged him to sit down. Taking a good look at Sherlock, John noticed he was very pale and looked a little unnerved.

"Here, let me see" said John as he coaxed Sherlock's hand away from his chest. Ready for the worst, he tried to ease open Sherlock's left hand from its tight grasp on his right forefinger. "It's OK, Sherlock. I can help you, just let me see".

"It hurts" whined Sherlock.

"I know, but if you won't let me see, I can't help you, can I?" said John in his gentle doctor's tone. However, he was thinking "odd there's no blood visible".

Sherlock looked at John and then released the hold he had on his finger and placed his right hand in John's.

"See", wailed Sherlock. "I've sliced my finger off and it hurts and you've got to fix it John".

John looked at his flat mate's hand and burst out laughing. "You utter git! You've got a paper cut! That's it; a simple paper cut!"

"But it hurts."

"Of course it hurts, Sherlock. But it's still only a paper cut. From the way you were carrying on I figured you'd lopped off your entire finger! You're worse than the patient I had at the clinic last week who was in getting a broken finger splinted … and he was three years old!"

Still chuckling, John got up and headed to his room. "Wait there and I'll get a bandage", he said to Sherlock.

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with his finger in a bandage and a cup of tea in front of him on the coffee table. John was just placing the last of the files into the box when Sherlock looked up at John and said, in a quiet voice, "Will I still be able to play the violin?"

John just looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "Sherlock, the bandage is on your right hand … your bow hand, you nutter!"

Sherlock looked down at his hand, and then back at John with a gentle smile on his face. "Thank you, John", he said waving his finger in the air.

"You're welcome, you idiot", answered John with a smile of his own.

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_Maybe it's just me, but I can absolutely see Sherlock pooh-poohing such things as breaking his leg or getting shot, or something along those lines but completely freaking out over something as simple as a hangnail or a paper cut!_


End file.
